no promises

I'm aware of the cost of absences like this. I have been writing other things, not fiction, and I miss bluesky. When I am not writing creatively, I am ruined.

Pearl died. Nobody still living liked her very much, and I'd have to agree that she wasn't easy to like, but I liked her and she liked me. It was my desk that she liked. She liked knowing the boss. She was an elitist. A true snob with her millions intact to the bitter end.

Many of my people are dying again right now. The cycle is repeating, as cycles will, and those little souls who were wandering and kicking the cat and tearing the plants from their pots have begun to call out the names of their brothers and sisters gone on before them, calling for mama because push-come-to-shove that's who we want even if we're ninety. They're trying to get home to papa because he'll worry. This is dying -- going home at last.

There is one who is trying to pass, and her son doesn't want her to go just yet. She wants to die, says as much every morning when the sun finds its way to her reluctantly opened eyes. "Leave me be." And the son wants more anti-depressants and different anti-depressants to "perk her up." And I tell him, "Ain't no cure for ninety, pal." Ain't no medicine gonna get in front of the will to live once that place in line is taken. Nope. Not even with a strong faith in a misunderstood god. But what do I know?

I've cancelled my harp lessons. I love my harp, but I will not use it to make a living any time soon, and do need to move obligation to a far side in this short life. Obligation, too, is ruinous to me.

Ah, there. It is good to write.

requiem for my truck

I traded my big fat red truck for a shiny new Mazda. There. I've said it out loud. I am no longer a truck driver. Again. Primal AARRRGGGGHHHHH!

You may remember a time when I had a brief meltdown and bought a tan Mazda sedan. This Mazda is not like that at all. It is a pearly white five door hatchback. Almost a truck. It is small and oh so much better on gas. The sedan moment was a bit of an identity crisis, followed shortly and expensively by that shiny red truck that I love(d). At least it was paid for. The Mazda, on the other hand, is not.

So.

My brother Marc talked me into buying that truck shortly before he died. I don't think he could bear the thought of me being stuck forever in beige. Kind of like car purgatory. He loved to buy cars. I don't. I just told him to pick it out, get the paperwork together and I'd sign up. So that's pretty much what happened. When I showed up to get the truck, I was a little surprised that it was teenage-boy red, but when I started driving it, it fit me. I used to take Marc for drives near the end, him on methadone for pain, me not, playing old songs he loved like Wooden Ships and Somebody Robbed the Glendale Train. And we'd sing and sing like we used to do before everything went to shit.

Now he's gone. And the truck is gone.

So we bought the Mazda 3 together. I'm not sure why its a three. I don't get all that. But it has lots of airbags and safety stuff, and keyless entry, and electric windows. We needed a non-truck. We needed a commuter. It's mine, but we'll share vehicles now. His white truck, my white car. Much better. Its a new day in married land.

attention span

I am here. I would leave it at that, but there is more. I am distracted and busy and want to quit my job and have not done it. I want to work in a coffee shop where things make sense. And from the outside in, so much does make sense. Up close, the Peyton Place of life is distressing.

I am off to the Alzheimer's Association this morning to learn about something. I can't think what. There is everything and nothing to learn. The nature of dying does not change. They die. We die.

Humor is a prelude to faith
Laughter is the beginning of prayer
(Reinhold Neibuhr)


I need a pair of rose colored glasses.

upgrade

Happy New Year everyone. My first sip of coffee, a peek at asha's blog, and my day - my year - is off and running. We celebrated last night with like-minded people, and found our way from bad music to tables of sweets and coffee at midnight. It was good to be out and about, and good to be home with Sid as the rockets began to fire. I'm not sure if I've been clear enough about how much I hate eighties cover bands. I don't know who Pat Travers is. I hate-really, hate-loud rock music, with a few exceptions, such as the Stones. I love Van Morrison, and Tom Waits, and Sarah McLauchlan and nice melodic quiet music like that. And Green Day and Weezer. And I love the blues. And crosby stills and nash. Stuff like that. So, now you know.

Upgrade announcement: I bought my beloved an HDTV yesterday. It was his christmas present and took awhile to pick one out. It isn't huge, as those things go, but it is much larger and lighter than our former set.

As to resolutions, I will try to keep my eyes open, along with my mind. I wish I would write more, play my harp more, and stay off sugar. Little feels within my grasp at this moment, but it is early and I am hardly awake. I have six books brewing in the back of my mind. I have a harp sitting in the corner gathering dust, I have sewing projects and home decorating ideas. I want to paint my kitchen in five different colors.

I want it all. But you know what they say: You can't have it all. Where would you put it?